Beneath the Surface
by xX12Anonymous97Xx
Summary: Artyom is an ordinary 20 year old, living in beneath the surface of post apocalyptic Moscow, in the city's metro. What may very well be the last dwelling place for humanity comes under threat from a new creature called 'The dark one'. Artyom embarks on a dangerous journey to save his home, but must consider carefully what he plans to do. For the wrong decision could mean death.
1. Chapter 1

~So. I fell in love with the game, and decided to write a novelization. Only to discover that the game already came from a book. Well, since this is fanfiction, I decided to keep on it anyway. This 'novel' of the game will be based entirely on the game, and offer life to our favorite character. I'm very much looking forward to the release of the new game, and want to get this out as quick as I can.

Starting with a few before the game scenes. Enjoy!

Chapter 1 – Life

"Happy birthday, Artyom!" The cheerful voice of his stepfather, Alex, said loudly. A few cheers went up from behind him, a small crowd of people who knew the two.

"Happy twentieth, Artyom!"

"You're a man now!"

He shook his head, never having been one to like being the center of attention. It didn't mean he was shy, far from it. He just didn't like when everyone was focused on him, and nothing else. "Thanks, everyone."

A plate of hot meat was handed over, a sizeable roasted ham atop it. Ham, or anything that came from pig, was a common food in the metro, albeit somewhat more luxurious. He received one for his birthday because of Alex.

Alex, Artyom's step father, was one of the more influential citizens of their station, and as such, had more luxury, and access to things like these.

He half wished that he could have gotten some of that chocolate stuff for his birthday, but any more, that stuff was a rare find, and sold for prices far higher than he could afford to buy.

He had gotten his only taste of the sweet, sugary substance when Hunter had come back from the surface with a few packets of it. Since then he had been in love with chocolate, and had even heard from some of the older men that there had once been something called chocolate cake.

Apparently it was like bread, only sweet and moist. Artyom's mouth watered just imagining it.

"Here you are, son." The voice of his stepfather brought him out of his musings, and he took his plate of a few slices of meet, along with a scoop of rat-meat stew and bread, and retreated to a corner of the small room.

He sat down at a table there, listening as people, both part of his party and not, chatted. The area here was rather cramped, but that was nothing new. Almost everything about metro life was cramped.

This area was used for vendors, who were currently set up at booths and tables along the far wall, selling everything from food and necessities, to guns and ammunition. He had heard once, that, before the great war, guns had been scarce and hard to come across, but now, literally everyone owned a gun.

Even he owned a couple of guns. Three years ago he had received his first weapon, a .44 magnum revolver, from his father's friend, Hunter. He also had an armory made machine gun, but that was stored away in said armory.

Hopefully he would never have to use it. Artyom had never had to shoot anything living, but the gun was just a precaution. He knew how to use his guns, as well as his knife, but he hoped he would never have to do so on a living creature.

Most of his practice was in the small firing range attached to the armory. He didn't even know how many old dolls or glass bottles he had broken there. Probably more than anyone else in the station.

After finishing his food, and scraping up the rest of the stew with his hard piece of bread, Artyom took his small collection of presents and headed back to his room. He left the market area, going down a flight of stairs and into a kitchen area.

He exchanged nods with the women cooking there, and gave a bullet to each of them. After that he headed down several small corridors, and to his room.

It was a small room, a dusty light bulb illuminating the area with a yellowish hue. He closed the rickety wooden door, leaving himself inside the small area. A desk, a couch, and a bookshelf all managed to be crammed into the little area. The desk was to his immediate right, with several notebooks and pencils, and other various items scattered about. The sofa was at the far end of the room, a guitar resting up against the right arm.

Above the sofa, on the wall, was his collection of post cards. He had a special thing for seeing the surface world, as he had been born only a few months before the great war, and couldn't really remember anything.

He had a few post cards from cities around the world. New York, Venice, and even Moscow, the city he currently lived in. Or rather, under.

All he had ever seen of the surface world was his post cards, and had the desire, like most other young folks, to travel up and see the surface.

He pushed those thoughts away, and settled in on his desk chair. He pushed aside the random materials, and took stock of what he had. Taking his watch off, he set it beneath a desk lamp, and looked at the things he had received. Including the gifts, he now had a total of twenty three bullets.

He set aside the golden cartridges, placing them in a clip designed for a machine gun. Twenty three bullets was a modest collection, hardly enough to buy anything. But it was all he needed. And he could earn more doing various jobs.

People told him he was too charitable a lot, but he ignored them. He liked helping out others.

Next, he took note of the new thing he had received. A new note book and a pack of pencils. He liked reading about the surface world, and any books he could get his hands on. Sometimes, if he really enjoyed a book, he would copy it word-for-word into notebooks, for hopes that he was saving the writings, if anything were to ever happen to them.

Looking around, he saw that that was all he had gotten. He emptied his pockets of various junk he had gotten, including a few old coins. He picked them up and placed them beside the bullets, trying to think of what it would have been like to actually have money instead of bullets for currency.

Since the great war of 2013, money had become, literally, worthless as currency. Sure, the rare coins could still be found and bought for a set amount of bullets, but… as currency, they were now worthless. Since the military grade, golden cased bullets, were fairly rare and valuable, they were now used as currency.

Since technology to make them was no longer around, it made them increasingly more valuable. The dirtied metro made rounds were the ones more often used for shooting, and were plentifully found. Shooting the MGR's was essentially like burning money. People who scavenged for goods had to make choices.

The Military Grade Rounds were much more powerful than the metro rounds, but were also very valuable. It was a tough decision, and one Artyom hoped he would never have to make.

Artyom made sure his door was closed, and then moved to the couch. He sat back on it, switching off the main light and leaving only the lamp on. The desk was easily reachable from his position on the couch, and so he scooped up a book and began to read.

…

'_BLAM!' - 'BLAM!' – 'BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!'_

Artyom flicked his wrist back, emptying the revolver of its used cartridges, and then loading in six more. He set aside the speed loader, and fired again, the sound still managing to echo and hurt his ears even with the padded walls.

Several more bottles crashed off the shelves, breaking into many pieces that would probably never be swept up or found again. He had nothing else to do at the moment, and since attacks on his station had increased during the last several days, he had figured he better get in some practice.

People in the station were really afraid, and it scared him too. The 'dark ones' had everyone up in arms, and being the step child of one of the station's most influential people, he had seen the effects first hand.

It wasn't pretty. They could crash through entire squads of trained, armed soldiers. But the scariest part was that, unlike the other mutants, they didn't attack outright with teeth or claws.

They, apparently did something that left a man's mind frazzled. People would mutter words, often incoherent and lacking any logical sense or order to them. Sometimes, the effected men or women would scream, clinch their hands to their faces, and even scratch or gouge out their eyes.

He had been unfortunate enough to see one such instance first hand.

The frightened screams of the man still haunted his ears.

'_BLAM! – 'BLAM!' – 'BLAM!' – 'BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!'_

Even the near deafening booms of his gun firing could blot out the voice, and he had to clinch his eyes shut, face screwing up for several minutes to get the memory to fade away.

"Artyom!"

The commanding voice of Alex brought him out of his memory induced coma, and Artyom immediately holstered his weapon at his side, after reloading it. Nodding, he turned around and looked to the man in question.

"We've called an emergency meeting. I'd like you to attend. Let's go."

Artyom said nothing, but did as he was told. He followed, waving good bye to the shooting range manager before following his stepfather. He hoped things weren't too bad. People were already afraid enough. And so was he. He didn't need anything more to worry him.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – Ranger's Quest

"Hey, Artyom!"

The man in question groaned, then sat up slowly, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He assisted the rapid series of blinks with a few swiping motions of his fingers, clearing away that annoying crusty stuff that formed when he slept.

"Taking your time as usual, son?" Alex said, with a small laugh and a shake of his head. But the little humorous tone was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual, more business-like tone. "Come on, let's see what news hunter brings us today."

Artyom rolled off his couch, groaning and stretching as he stood up. His light must have been switched on by Alex as he had walked in. He squinted a bit because of the light, and tried to remember what he was supposed to grab. Due to the increasing attacks lately, everyone of fighting age had been required to carry a weapon of some sort, and Artyom was no exception.

He slid his large combat knife into a conveniently built boot holster, and then picked up his .44 magnum revolver, and several speed loader cartridges. He stuffed them into various pockets of his sweatshirt, but kept the unloaded magnum in his hand.

He switched off the light and closed the door behind him, following his step-father Alex immediately off to the left. He overheard several conversations as he passed, ranging from disputes over family to arguments over what should be done about the most recent threats plaguing the station.

One man spoke about how he thought the 'Dark Ones' would _"Kill us all." _As Alex and Artyom walked by, and Alex's simple response was, "We'll see what Hunter says."

They moved up a couple of staircases and to a large, lobby area. Most of the left hand side was crowded with people, waiting behind a fence, held there by a couple of armed guards. As he looked over, he couldn't help but notice the poor, dirtied woman and her couple of kids, sitting there, crying.

"My husband! They told me he was in a battle! Please, tell me…" she exclaimed, noticing Artyom watching her. "Is he okay?"

Artyom reached out and put a finger on her shoulder. "What's his name?" he asked, gently.

"Grigory Osepp." She murmured, and Artyom nodded.

"I'll look for him." He said, offering a reassuring look at the woman, and the two kids.

"Thank you, so much." She sobbed, making no effort to hide her tears. Most of the people gathered behind the waiting area were in similar states, either sad or angry, and all trying desperately to get by the armed guards and into the hospital, which was across the room from it.

Alex moved over toward the door, signified by a red cross crudely painted on it. He knocked on it a couple of times, eliciting an annoyed snort from the guard behind the door. "This is no time for…" he began, opening up the door. Once his clouded eyes saw who it was though, the tone trailed off, and he retreated a few steps, bowing his head apologetically.

"Oh. Alex, come on in. Hello, Artyom."

Alex brushed past the man, heading for the doctor, whose name was Nicolay. "How are the wounded, any improvements?"

The doctor looked up from the patient he was tending, his hands still busily working on their patient, signifying how good he had become at his job. "Not much. The dark ones don't kill outright. They damage their victims' minds.. and the results are…." He didn't need to say more. One look around the bed filled room was enough.

Men lie in various positions on their beds, wraps around wounded parts of their bodies, which was most often their heads. A few other people tended to these patients, trying to knock them out of their comas with cold water, or bright light.

As they headed toward the exit of the hospital, though, Artyom noticed one patient. He was sitting up in his bed, dressed in dirty, ragged clothes. He recognized this man. This was the guard he had played cards with a couple of weeks ago.

"Oh.. I.. I can't reach.. I mean, I just… can't reach.." his words were slurred, as though he were a drunken fool, and it saddened and enraged Artyom at the same time.

Suddenly the man let out a shrill scream, causing one of the people acting as a nurse to approach. He shoved them away, clawing at his face and crying out incoherently.

Artyom moved quickly after his stepfather, pushing the door shut quickly behind him. It did little to muffle the screams, though.

Before them was a large, steel door. At least a foot thick and sealed off tightly. This was the airlock, the area of the station that passengers would have once come down from. Two guards stood on either side of the door, while a third leant up against the wall on the left.

Alex's eyes scanned the rather bare room, and upon seeing Hunter had not yet arrive, walked briskly towards a seemingly randomly placed camp fire on the right side of the room. Just above the fire was a vent shaft, which allowed for the smoke to escape.

A loud clang from the other side of the locked steel door managed to scare the crap out of Artyom enough so that he immediately brought up his weapon in a futile gesture, eliciting a laugh from one of the guards.

He immediately lowered the gun, feeling his ears grow hot with embarrassment.

"Mutants don't knock first! Open the damn gate!" The guard on the farthest right commanded. One reached for a button, and the gate opened with a series of clangs and a hiss. Outside was hunter, dressed in all kinds of gear.

A heavy, metal helmet rested on his head, night vision goggles flipped off. His entire upper body was covered in a thick, Kevlar type of armor, and his thighs and calves were also covered with the padded armor. Loud boots clomped on the floor, and several weapons, clips of ammo, and bombs hung from his suit, and the man kicked a suitcase in the door rather ungraciously.

The door shut soon behind him, and he left the suitcase where it was, immediately moving toward Alex and the camp fire, and sitting down on one of the other chairs that surrounded it.

"Hey Alex, long time no see."

The two shook hands, patting each other on the back. Hunter's gaze turned toward Artyom, and a rare smile crossed his features.

"Ahh! Artyom! I met a trader selling old postcards of New York City, and I thought of your wall." He dug into one of his pockets, and pulled out an old, crumbled up picture. It was of a green statue, holding a torch high into the air. The blue sky behind it made it that much more majestic, and he recognized it.

The famed Statue of Liberty.

He wondered what had become of it. Was it still standing? Or had it, too, succumbed to the horrible effects of the war? Either way, Artyom didn't think he'd ever find out. As far as anyone knew, no other human life existed outside of the Russian metro system.

Taking the post-card gently and offering his thanks, Artyom slipped it into his largest pocket, so it wouldn't have to be folded or creased any more than it already was. After that, Alex and Hunter began talking, but didn't get in more than a few hushed sentences each before the alarm sounded.

A red light above Artyom suddenly switched on, having the effect of something similar to the lights atop a police cruiser. The entire room was bathed in its red hue, making the situation seem that much more apprehensive.

Artyom brought out his weapon, loading it just as the woman that ran the station's announcement system came online.

"_Attention! Intruder alert! From the main vent shafts! They're coming in from above!"_

Artyom brought his loaded .44 magnum up to aim at one of the room's four vent shafts, emerging from the wall on the opposite side of the room. Two were on that side, while two were above him.

Alex flung open a red steel cabinet attached to the wall beside him, taking out a rifle similar to an AK74 and a couple of clips of ammo. There were no other guns in there, so Artyom was stuck with his pistol. Thankfully, though, there were three more speed loader clips inside, and he took them up.

"Damn. They never come this far into the station!" Alex cursed, waving his AK around as though possessed. Hunter had removed his own weapon, an AK as well, but with a scope and a bayonet attached to it.

"It's the hospital, they smell the blood."

Alex had no direct reply, and instead gestured to the three guards who were also present in the room. "You three, go watch the adjacent tunnel!" he commanded authoritatively, giving a first-hand view of why he was one of the station's most revered citizens. The three in question quickly opened up and headed into a door adjacent to the main airlock, being sure to close it behind them.

So only the three of them, now. He, Hunter, and his stepfather.

Artyom, meanwhile, was deep in his own thoughts. He wasn't as nervous as he would have thought he would be. Perhaps that was due to the many hours of practice he had conjured up, or something else. But he, Hunter, and Alex were the only three standing between the mutants and the injured men behind the hospital walls.

He heard the sound of claws scraping on polished metal, and thumbed back the hammer on his revolver. A mutant burst out from the vent behind and to his right, lunging immediately at Hunter.

It was repulsing. It seemed to be derived from a mole. With a pinkish skin tone, and long, lanky arms, it could manage quite a swipe with its claws. The salivating, jagged teeth emerging from its maw completed the package of one ugly motherfucker.

Artyom was about to bring up his weapon and pull off a shot, but before he could do so, Hunter lashed out. The mutant didn't stand a chance. The bayonet tore right through the thing's torso, emerging from its back, before being pulled out. It fell to the ground, a pool of dark crimson spreading beneath it.

"Eat that." Hunter commented, returning his gaze to the vent the Nosalis had come from.

Another two came sliding down the vent Artyom's gun was aimed at, and he pulled off two shots. They hit the first monster in the shoulder, then the neck. Only one more bullet was needed for the second, a direct shot between the eyes.

Already swinging his weapon around to the vent directly above him, and aware somewhere in the back of his mind that he only had three bullets left, Artyom picked off two of the mutants there, before needing to reload.

He tipped back the revolver, allowing the used cartridges to bounce hollowly on the ground. Before they had even finished rattling though, his gun was reloaded and firing again.

Alex and Hunter seemed to be holding their own, firing in short bursts, picking off mutants that would've otherwise gotten the other. Any mutants that got too close were dissuaded by Hunter's bayonet, and wisely kept back.

Artyom pulled off another shot, not watching as the body collapsed from the vent and onto the ground below. He swung his gun around and fired again, before a weight landed on his shoulders, forcing him to the ground. The gun was sent sliding along the floor, toward Alex's feet.

Neither Hunter nor Alex noticed, and though it would only be a few seconds before they did, even that short amount of a time span would allow the Nosalis on Artyom's back to inflict major claw wounds. So he had to act now.

Whirling around so he was lying on his back, he managed to shake the attacking mutant off, hand instantly going for the knife holstered at his boot. He whipped it out as the mutant lunged at him, hot, putrid breath making his lips curl back in a snarl.

As he had been told to do, Artyom used his left hand to keep the monster at bay by wrenching its head back, two of his fingers in each of its nostrils. He brought the knife up with his right hand, slamming it down on the back of the monster's neck, and inflicting a large knife wound, which left it dazed.

Pressing his advantage, Artyom twirled the knife in his fingers and stabbed downward, eliciting a sharp fountain of blood and a dying growl from the beast. Ignoring the viscous liquid he was now coated in, he brought his knife up and looked around. One more beast was crawling down the vent, and with a flick of his wrist, he sent the knife scything through the air to impact between the monster's eyes.

It tumbled out, and allowed him to yank out and holster his knife. Alex quickly rushed over, throwing aside his gun. He offered a hand, which Artyom took, and used to get back up.

"Artyom, my boy, are you alright?"

He took a breath to answer, when Hunter handed him his magnum. "He's fine. A dead-eye shot he is."

Turning around, Hunter kicked the body of the one Artyom had stabbed through the neck, a scowl working its way across his features.

"No 'Dark Ones' here. Just these usual tunnel trash." Hunter scoffed, turning to face Artyom and Alex.

The latter man was in his own thoughts though, shaking his head and reminding Artyom of that possessed analogy he had used earlier. "Even when you don't see them.. the Dark Ones are there. Fear… that's their weapon. That's what made the nosalis run through the tunnels like rats! The dark ones… are not simple mutants.. they're Homo Novus.. the next step in evolution. You heard about survival of the fittest? Guess what.. we lost!"

Hunter's eyes were alight with a fire that scared even Artyom, and he watched as the ranger turned slowly, looking as though he were ready to shoot Alex. He pointed a glove hand at his own chest though, a low growl of a voice emanating from somewhere deep within his body.

"What's happened to you Alex..? You can go like lambs to the slaughter. I'll hold onto whatever life I got left with teeth and claws! And I'll take more than a few of your 'Homo Novus' with me to hell!"

Alex came back a snarl of his own, eyes alight with their own fire. One that Artyom had never before seen. Stress, worry, and a multitude of other things that were impossible to put into words. Such strong emotion caused a sharp jolt of fear to work its way down Artyom's back. He had never seen his stepfather like this.

"You think you are some old, movie cowboy!? Look out there!" He cried, palms clinching into fists as his gun was dropped to the floor. "Those soldiers! Men, trained in combat! Their bodies broken.. minds gone! They-"

Whatever Alex had been about to say next was cut off by the sound of a door slamming open, and all three of them turned to face the sound. A young man, with a bloody bandage wrapped around his hands, and a double barrel shotgun in his grasp, came bursting through the doorway.

"The Dark Ones!" he huffed. "They… they've destroyed the outer guard post…"

Those words silenced everyone, before Alex scooped up his fallen gun again. Wordlessly he shoved past the soldier, heading through the station, following a crowd of men including a few doctors.

Artyom, more out of instinct and fear, followed, his revolver clutched tightly in his cold, clammy hands. They arrived in a large tunnel, long disused tracks spanning out into several directions from the central station, which was behind them.

Any trains on the tracks had long since been removed. They had either been crushed by falling debris or had been converted into homes, or were simply too damaged and had been cast aside or melted down and converted into something else entirely.

The bodies of men lay everywhere, in awkward, splayed positions. There wasn't even a drop of blood, nor a bullet casing on the ground.

Just how had these men died?

"We gotta live one!" A doctor cried out, a couple more people hurried to the frenzied man's side.

"Ah.. I can't see… ah…. Help!" the poor guy cried, before going limp in the hands of the doctors.

The rest of the men continued to check the bodies, as Artyom stood back, awed and angered by the carnage.

Hunter stalked around the bodies as though they weren't even there, though Artyom could tell that the ranger was checking to see if anyone was left alive. Strangely, though, he didn't check pulses. He just seemed to know if a man was dead.

Years of experience could do that to a man.

Hunter approached the edge of the darkness, and motioned with his hand for Artyom to follow.

Silently, he slipped off after Hunter, being sure that no one saw him.

Without turning around, the ranger spoke. "Only the devil knows what's stirring outside your gates." He murmured, voice deathly quiet. In his voice was a dangerously thin mask of anger and hate, only lightly veiled. "I must go and recon the situation."

Hefting his AK and checking it was loaded, he turned to Artyom and tugged a token out of his pocket. It was a small medal, looking more like a dog tag. It had a symbol on the front, an M, along with his name scratched in beneath it. The medal was a little scuffed up, and he wondered why Hunter was giving it to him.

"If I don't make it back by morning, you must get to Polis station and find a man named Miller. Tell him what's happened… what's stirring in the northern tunnels. Show this to Miller-" the ranger growled, tossing him the medallion, "-and he'll know I've sent you. He will be able to help you. I trust everything to you, Artyom. Don't let me down." Slowly, Hunter turned and stalked into the darkness.

And when all that remained was a shadowy silhouette, he spoke the last words that Artyom would ever hear. "If we are to survive, this threat must be eliminated. Whatever the cost. Eliminated."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 For any Readers

Chapter 3 - Terrifying Ride Pt. 1

When Artyom woke the next morning, Hunter had still not returned. And somehow, the young man knew that he would never return. He was going to have to go to Polis. But the only problem was he didn't know how.

But he learned after he woke up and ate, that a caravan would be leaving for Riga the next day. Apparently they needed guards. It provided the perfect opportunity to begin his journey. Plus, it offered a payment of 20 bullets. So Artyom headed up to his dad's office, making his way through the narrow, cramped, and dirtied corridors of the station, and to Alex's office.

A guard was in front of the door, as usual, but he stepped aside when Artyom appeared. "Go ahead and go in." he said through a mask, voice somewhat distorted.

Artyom nodded and pushed his way through the door, seeing Alex look up, and his face light up when he noticed Artyom, and realized who it was.

He set down his pencil, and stood up, stopping whatever work he'd been focusing on. "Artyom, my boy. What can I do for you?"

Artyom looked around the room a moment, before he responded. "I heard that the caravan for Riga tomorrow needs guards. I was wondering if there were still any spots open?"

Alex's eyes went wide, and he looked as though he were about to protest. But then something inside of his eyes changed, and he looked weak. Just as he had yesterday.

"You're getting older now.. I suppose I can't stop you doing these things. Yes, there are still spots open. Would you like me to put you down for one?"

Silently, Artyom nodded.

Alex seemed to hesitate for a moment, before returning the nod. "Alright. I'll put you down on the list. They'll be leaving at 10 o'clock tomorrow, and you'll need a gun. I'll send word to the armory that you'll be needing equipment."

Artyom watched as Alex wrote his name down on a sheet of paper, and then turned away. "Thank you." He said quietly. There was no response as he made his way out of the room.

…

The next morning was similar to all the rest. Artyom woke up after someone knocked on his door, and slowly woke up. He made sure to collect all of his belongings. His watch, notepad, a pencil, his modest collection of MGR, and his gun.

After shutting off the two lamps in his room, he made his way out and down the hall to a bathroom. It was in surprisingly clean condition. A couple of shower stalls to the left with pull over curtains. They were in as good of shape as could be expected for the time.

Artyom moved to the sink and splashed some cold water on his face, before tipping his head up and looking at his reflection in the mirror. A young man, with short hair. His body beginning to take on the defined tone of a man, but not quite there yet.

His muscles were changing into the bigger, manlier type, but still showed signs of youngness. His skin was, for the most part, untarnished and untouched by any type of wound or scar, with the exception of a few.

He wondered how many scars he'd gain on this journey. He took that moment to take in his reflection for what might well be the last time. It was almost enough to make him reconsider this whole journey. But then he thought of Hunter, and the desperation in the man's voice.

So Artyom turned and left the restroom. He went up a flight of stairs, into the merchant room. People were gathered around a large counter space, where a variety of guns were laid out, all for purchase if one had enough money. A few people seemed to be considering, but most here didn't have the funds.

Beyond the market counter was another counter. A couple of women and a few men serving bowls of some kind of stew, along with drinks. This was where the local alcoholics hung out, and most of them were presently drowning themselves in the shroom vodka or already hung over on tables.

He passed them up and turned left, entering a narrow doorway and moving into the small area that was the armory.

The man behind him, eyes hidden behind his reflective glasses, looked up from his work. Behind him were several various parts of guns, as well as strings of bullets hung up on his left.

"Ah, hey Artyom!" he said, offering a small salute with a gloved hand. "I see you're ready to set off. Here, let's get you supplied."

The man reached behind him and pulled a gun off the wall. It was the same carbine he'd used a few times before on the range. "Here you go. Special carbine, made in the armory. It's got poor accuracy, and overheats like hell. That's why they call it the Bastard gun. Of course the addition of a silencer improves accuracy, and makes you harder to detect, if you've got the money.."

Artyom shook his head no, and no more was said over that little matter.

He handed the gun over, unloaded of course. Artyom slung it over his shoulder by way of the strap, and by then the man had already taken some of the bullets off the many strings he had made and stuffed them into a few magazines designed for the gun.

Each magazine held 30 rounds, and Artyom was given four of them. He stuffed the magazines into the two pockets on the front of his heavy green jacket that he'd acquired from Alex last night.

"Here. You'll also need a gasmask, in case you cross any radiation hot-spots." Next, the man handed over the common type of mask. It was a full face mask, made almost entirely of plastic. "And here are a couple of filters."

Artyom took the two filters and the mask, placing them in a couple other pockets, and hanging the mask off his belt.

"Lastly, here is a first aid kit. Standard in the metro."

Artyom picked up the orange kit. He'd seen these a few times, and had always wondered what was inside. He hoped he didn't have to find out. Still, it would be good to familiarize himself with the kit if he got the time.

The man nodded, after that. "Well, you are supplied, my friend! Feel free to practice with your weapon on my range."

And after that little statement, the armorer returned to his work. Feeling no need to waste ammo he was most likely going to need later, Artyom made his way out of the armory and to the station loading platform.

Along the way, though, he stopped into Alex's office again, as the door was open. The man looked up from his work. "Ah, Artyom, I see you're ready to set off. Good luck, my boy. Stay safe."

Artyom kneeled down and placed a hand on his step-father's, looking him eye to eye. "I will be okay."

He nodded. "I know. I see that. But I also see that you look up to Hunter. Don't get any brazen ideas… a ranger's life is… different. They are often reckless.. and violent by nature. Please, just deliver the cargo and come home."

Artyom tried not to let the worried frown cross his features, and averted his gaze. He said nothing. For if he were to, he'd most likely end up not going on the journey. And Hunter was depending on him. He had to do this.

"I'll see you, now."

"See you."

Artyom turned and left the room. He felt the guilt boiling in his gut, like a pot of hot water. Eating away at his soul. He hated lying. But it also scared him. This would be the first time he left his home station. He had no idea what it was going to be like out there.

Being the step-son of one of his station's most respected citizens had it's downsides too. He wasn't exposed to as many of the horrors or casualties as the others. Though he knew how to use a weapon, he hadn't had to actually kill anything until a couple days ago.

When he thought about it, it was actually kind of strange. He would have expected to feel some kind of guilt, or at least slightly sick when he had done such things. But no… he had shot and stabbed and killed creatures – living creatures – and had then brushed their blood off like it was dust and kept moving forward.

That thought alone should've been enough to sicken him. But it didn't. And that was when he realized it. How much humanity had lost from the Great War. Now, even kids, didn't feel guilty when they talked about killing things. Because it was a normal part of metro life. Killing was nothing new, and as a result the shock or disgust that anyone would've felt had disappeared.

Artyom's brow furrowed, and his eyes clinched shut. He may have stood there, in the middle of the pig keeping room, had a big man not slapped his hand down on his back. "Hey! Artyom!" he bellowed out. "Would'ja like a pig? Great pets!"

Shaking his head in one jerky motion, Artyom forced those thoughts out of his mind, and kept moving. He made his way around the stalls of pigs, and men, and to the loading platform. Boxes were stacked on either side of the rail line, along with a few men loading, packing, or unloading supplies. A hand cart sat at the far end of the tunnel, along with a couple of other men.

One was Eugene. Another young man who had signed up. Artyom knew him fairly well, and the two of them had had more than a few conversations.

He waved his gloved hand, and Artyom responded with a small wave of his own.

His own hands were shielded with a pair of ratty, grey fingerless gloves. He had grown so accustomed to them being on his hands that he hardly ever noticed them anymore.

Another man, with a beard, and a similar armored green jacket to Artyom, took the cigarette out of his mouth, placed a green cap on his head, and stroked his scruffy grey beard. Christ, the man looked like he had more experience than five Artyom's put together.

He wasn't quite as fearsome as Hunter, not by a long shot, but it was enough for him to gain Artyom's respect in an instant.

"Hey, kid. Ya ready to go?" His voice matched his looks, and the tag on his jacket said his name. Boris.

Artyom offered a nod. "Yeah. I'm ready."

"You ready? Good." Turning to a hand cart, with four seats and two push levers, he gestured, thankfully, to the seat on the front without a lever. Eugene had already taken the seat with the lever. "Take that seat, next to Eugene."

Artyom obliged happily, sliding down into the rickety wooden seat.

"Hey man." Eugene greeted, enthused. Artyom nodded to him.

"Hi." He replied, placing his gun down beside him. The small hand cart was already loaded up with supplies, back packs and various supplies hanging off of the guard rails and front and back of the cart. Boxes were also stuffed beneath the bench seats the three men were sitting on.

Artyom felt lucky to not have gotten one of the seats that required him to push the lever. It appeared that would be Eugene's job. The man didn't seem any less than enthused.

Although whether or not that was because he somehow knew what was going to happen next was going to happen, or because he truly didn't mind. But some other man, clad in only dirtied clothes, approached the cart. How he'd gotten back in to the loading bay was beyond Artyom, but he wasn't going to question it.

"Hey guys… going to Riga?" The newcomer asked, shuffling his feet, while stuffing his hands into his pockets.

The man who was the leader of their little group of three, the man with the beard, nodded. "Yeah. Why?"

The man shrugged. "I have some business to attend to. Can I get a lift?"

The bearded man patted the seat next to him, which was also a lever pulling seat. "Yeah sure. But you'll have to pull the lever sometimes."

"Oh, I can do that!" The other man said, quickly jumping in to the seat. He didn't have any gear or anything to secure, so he grabbed the leaver in his hand.

Eugene looked behind them. While he and Artyom were in the front of the cart, their backs were facing the direction in which they'd be travelling. Artyom wasn't sure he would like that. He craned his neck around to look behind them, into the dark metro tunnel.

As the cart started to roll, Eugene managed an amused laugh. "Hey, Arty, free at last! Well, for as long as the ride takes. More danger, even more fun, right?" He asked, enthused. Artyom didn't share it, and only shrugged. The journey was beginning.


End file.
